ad nauseam
by glossier
Summary: He doesn't miss her, he tells himself (over and over.) — Daniel/Henley, and the times where he thinks of her
1. during

**_a/n:** i was so emo after watching nysm2 bc all i kept thinking about was how u know if isla/henley was in it, it would have been her and jesse/daniel to kiss at new years eve and the thought/scenario would have been absolutely perfect. fuck me bc this kiss is so long overdue and her ass best show up in the third movie like i can already imagine her coming back (bc its def a possibility, especially with the expansion of the Eye members! omg) and the bantering between her and daniel would prob increase as well as their sexual tension since this would have canonically been after their second break up. oh my god. can you imagine. and their long overdue kiss scene would probably be before the last heist and it could be for luck or because maybe they won't survive it or something! FUCK

anyways. i love daniel and henley and intend to write more fics for them. i think i have like 4 of them already posted :)

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 **ad nauseam  
** ad nau·se·am. _adverb_. referring to something that has been repeated so often that it has become annoying or tiresome.

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He doesn't miss her, he tells himself (over and over.) — Daniel, and the moments that remind him of Henley

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 **9:57 a.m.**

There is a woman in his living room, lying on his couch— _the_ couch of one-night-stands and numerous shameful rebounds consisting of fangirls and strangers willing to throw themselves at him after showing effortless two-minute card tricks in those flashy bars he hates (but _she_ used to love and _no_ he's not trying to _accidentally_ run into her or anything; that would be preposterous and a little creepy of him and he is neither of those things, of course.) He's always wearing a disguise when he does indulge in these disapproved outings and he knows she is too, meaning that the possibility of them having been in the same atmosphere could be likely and hidden just right under their noses.

Or his, for the matter. She could recognize his hands anywhere. He knows this. He knows everything. Almost. Kind of.

Anyway, there's a woman in his apartment and he must get her out because his mind is running haywire suddenly and all he needs is to be is alone. But she just won't shut the hell up and there she goes decapitating herself and—

Daniel just does not have the time nor patience to give a single fuck about this girl's magic. Really.

Then she mentions a name that he keeps himself from saying by biting his tongue and swallowing the sting she's left in the hitch of his throat not so long ago.

And he's gonna snap at this girl if she continues to talk about his failures, but he's able to compose himself in the nick of time. She should consider herself lucky.

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 **10:23 p.m.**

He's in Macao.

Dylan's socked him in the gut, pinned him to the wall, and pushed him out the door of a farmer's market—basically: saved his ass from being pummeled by native muscle men in a simple act of misleading escapism. Trickery at its finest, though involving bruising, pain, and sacrifices made.

For a split second—in between fiddling with the card between hesitant fingers and before placing the wanted device back into his coat pocket—he thinks of an artist that has mastered the action of whimsical escapes far beyond the capabilities of the horsemen accompanying him in China and how there is a slight possibility that things would go a little smoothly with her around.

Although it had never run smoothly with _them_ , per se, her magic had never failed to do so. He'll give her that.

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 **2:01 a.m.**

After being engulfed in water and wading as thoroughly as he possibly could with the lack of oxygen his system could withhold and retrieving Dylan from very bottom, Daniel is cold, wet, and in need a heater. Or new attire. In the magic shop, a rag around his shoulders suffice.

It could be worse, he deems, pondering over when he had lost a bet against this red-haired nuisance involving him plunging into lake water butt-naked and she escaping with his clothes.

He holds the blanket around him and shudders.

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 **9:14 a.m.**

 _Don't die, Danny._

He reads the text over and over and over, sent by an unknown number—an international one, at that. He smirks at it in disbelief, for a minute or two thinking of whether or not someone's toying with him. It has got to be her; there is no doubt in his mind that it is the very ex-horsemen plaguing the back of his mind.

 _Did you forget who you're talking to?_ , he types with quick, nimble fingers.

Though, because he is watchful with his usage of technology, especially during the day of their finale, he disposes of the message before pressing send.

Regardless if he had sent it or not, he's aware that she already knows what he would say in return. She's had a knack for somehow stealing words from his mouth and reading his thoughts before he states them. He'll never know how.

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 **12:00 a.m.**

There are fireworks almost as loud as the heartbeats he had once felt resonating with his own in the early hours of morning day by day and night by night. The sky is illuminated in yellows, whites, pinks, and blues, the crowd's cheer roars alongside each heavy powdered explosion, and the horsemen have just won, and on international television.

He wonders if she's watching him, if she's up to date on everything, or if she's planning the outfit she's going to wear that night since London is eight hours ahead and she's probably still excited to celebrate the new year with a boy toy she's hooked along her finger, who will have most likely complimented her very, very red lips. Her signature.

Then he sees Lula and Jack making out and in all complete honesty (that he would never admit to), he is bitter. Bitter because it should have been his kiss with Henley. They were supposed to be the (troublesome) lovebird pair of the horsemen and that would have been the moment that has been long overdue—a public kiss, one for the crowd, simultaneously with their victory, their best stunt yet.

A minute passes and he brushes off the unfair resent that burdens him as he and Merritt interrupt the duo's budding romance with words that otherwise would have been said to he and Henley Reeves.

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 **9:09 a.m.**

Daniel slides his phone across the marble surface of his kitchenette, annoyed at the fact he is still very much awake when he had had no drinks whatsoever and should very well be exhausted after the final heist. Despite Merritt's attempts to get him drunk alongside the rest of the crew—c _'mon you buzzkill, drink up, it's a new year_ —Daniel would still hardheadedly refuse due to, well, bitterness. And maybe a little melancholy.

He's been toying with his phone for an hour and eight minutes with only one stupid thought in his mind. He wants to call her. He wants to check up on her, make sure she's sober enough to head home from her Happy January 1st one night stand, make sure she's alright, and all (when he very well knows she is, the tough girl), if the boy she just had fun with knows to never pull her hair or how to make her toes curl in the midst of her orgasm. He just wants to hear her voice on the other line, honey sweet and sharp in one. He remembers the hum of it as she'd murmur good night and the nostalgia makes him dizzy.

He grabs his phone and quickly unlocks the home screen—one that had used to solely be a photo of her, one she had taken, of course, and changed herself without his permission. He would change it back to a scenic wallpaper every time, but somehow, someway, she is always able to those gloved hands back on it and swap his home screen back.

Daniel scowls at her previous contact name, the photo icon, the seven digits of her number (to the right of a star-sixty-seven, but he is _not_ a pussy or anything, he is simply just _careful_ ), with an inexplicable want to tell her about everything she has missed and everything the horsemen had overcome. But that's not how Daniel works, nor is. It is pride over everything. It is knowledge over everything. Superiority over everything. Control, she would say.

She would say a lot of things, actually, come to think of it; all never pertaining anything even remotely nice.

He runs through all the possible conversations via one single phone call he would be damned to make, each one ending with an abrupt hang up on her end and a bittersweet satisfaction on his.

In the end, he doesn't make the call.

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 **1:36 p.m.**

Upon entering the headquarters of The Eye, there is an infinitesimal twinge of hope (that he internally berates himself for having) that once the door unlocks and the horsemen set foot onto the polished, wooden floors, that he would see heels, perhaps gloves, a cherry red smile, and a glimpse of strawberry blonde.

He can't say he's disappointed.

He's too astonished by absolute magic that is the reality of The Eye.

There is no room for disappointment, heartbreak, anguish. That would be foolish, and J. Daniel Atlas is anything but.

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 **_a/n:** should i write more? i basically wrote in the time span of the movie itself, and i was wondering if i should add more moments in between or i could continue with time after or even touch upon the before-when they were canonically together between the first and the sequel.

i know this was short, but i mean it's just a one shot. no general plot. just the moments in between.

what do you think?


	2. before

**_a/n:** enjoy :)

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 **ad nauseam**  
 _He doesn't miss her, he tells himself (over and over.)_

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[set in between NYSM & NYSM2]

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 **3:12 p.m.**

Henley had always been dramatic. That's partially what made her such a sight-for-sore-eyes entertainer. Overreactive, verbal, downright _obvious_ —and every possible, imaginative characteristic in between.

It is something that always half annoyed him and half fascinated him, because despite her devilish and coy demeanor, she still somehow managed to exhibit a childish, drama queen-like air. The simultaneous ability to be both was a mystery to him, yet had the power to be oddly appealing—leaving her gloves in his apartment when she had gone for good being a prime example of such.

/

"So what's with the gloves?" Daniel asks while working on his finger techniques, catching a quick glimpse of her rearranging the strap. They're lounging in the warehouse that had become the Horsemen's headquarters, waiting for Dylan and the rest of the crew to return with updates from The Eye and Italian takeout. He flings half of the deck into the air and has them vanish as they land on his palm with a clap of his hands.

Her eyes fly to his, focusing on his cards and waiting expectantly for an answer.

"Was it some magic foul play? Perhaps an accidental burn of such during a show?"

"You really think my previous staff—a staff that enabled such successful performances all around the country—were capable of such crucial mistakes?" she snidely replies while attempting to cool down her fume.

He shrugs, annoyingly so. His condescending nonchalance never failed to spark her irritation. "I'm just saying it wouldn't be much of a surprise for you or your crew to mess up at one point, since yes, you have performed a numerous amount of times. I hardly doubt each and every one of them had been pitch perfect."

Pushing her aggravation beneath her, she responds almost entertained, "I know that _you_ are used to having to deal with mistakes during your street shows or whatnot, but _my_ team has always sold."

His eyes flicker in mild annoyance, and she laughs when she catches it.

"The gloves make my grip much sturdier," Henley explains as she makes her way in front of him. She begins to demonstrate by proceeding to do a hand stand—something he's witnessed years and years ago during a somewhat-audition to be his assistant. She moves forward, and before the show man disregards her basic gymnastics, she begins gripping onto the handles of the chair beside their dining table, making her way upward in graceful movements with straight posture. Henley doesn't stop there, she continues to work her way onto the table by gripping onto its legs and presumably climbing in an opposing vertical manner. She allows her legs to sway in the direction she's facing in order to plant her heels onto the other side of the table before standing upright.

"They also have magnets embedded into the seams for god knows whatever I need them for," she replies, making her way back to him. "Doing handstands on the ceiling and whatnot. It's convenient for escaping."

"So you climb walls and can walk with your hands," Daniel summarizes, seemingly unimpressed. He understands the convenience of such, but still deems the usage unnecessary. "Seems a tad useless to me."

She removes one of them and stretches her manicured fingers in front of him, smiling. That is, before having her bare palm clap against the side of his face. She then proceeds to mimic the movement with her gloved hand against his opposite cheek, a smirk on her lips. "They also make my slaps heavier."

His brows furrow as he touches his face, warm with a post-burn sting. She's right.

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 **10:12 p.m.**

Alright, so there's no way in hell he's letting her play strip poker alone with that fucking ass hat, so he manages to get Wilder to play and strategically invite Daniel over (since both the mentalist and escape artist had failed to provide the effort of wanting him to join.)

Once he's settled himself by Jack and straight across from Henley, Merritt deals with a coy smirk. The looks they each give him as he groups his cards makes him slightly apprehensive, and it's not until his focus shifts over to what's in his hands that he understands: he's got a shitty pile. And somehow, they all know. Or maybe he's overthinking the way they're looking at him—their signature smirks being a recurring factor during their shows, their billboards, their headlines. Daniel disregards their looks and proceeds to divide his cards to the best of his ability.

He's got a straight, at least. Albeit, with small numbers. He knows he is prone to lose this one, and he's only going to need to deal with Merritt's inevitable body-shaming commentary. He can manage this loss, though. It's all about winning the long game.

A few rounds later, when Daniel's seated in his boxers and nothing but, Merritt (fully clothed) chuckles, "Still about the long game?"

Jack (fully clothed) is holding back his laughter and Henley? She's also fully clothed.

"Definitely," is his only response, stern and monotoned (yet completely determined.)

Humiliation is his absolute nemesis, and although this is mild, in comparison to fucking up during a heist, it is still humiliation. He swallows it down. Tries to, at least. His irritation is still very present, though.

"So what was that?" her voice is heard by the doorframe of the supposed living room. They're alone and he knows he shouldn't be embarrassed since it had been nothing _she_ hasn't seen before.

"It was me, losing for the first time in my life," he claims, turning off the television to face her from the couch.

Henley crosses her arms, eyes sparkling in the dim lamp light. "I call bullshit."

"Wrong game, sweetheart," he says bitterly, flicking the television back on.

"You're nervous."

"Now why would _I_ be nervous?"

At this point, she has made herself to him, planting herself on the arm rest to his left. He's not looking at her, instead keeping his gaze on the meaningless commercial in front of him.

"Because I'm right," she states surely, in the infamous Henley way. "And you're doing that thing where you're trying your best to divert your attention to anything other than me, since I've seen right through you."

"Jesus Christ, what does that even mean?" he grimaces, finally crooking his neck to face her. If she thinks he's going to give her the benefit of the doubt, she would be sorely mistaken.

"Don't give me that. You're the show master, the card player extraordinaire. I know you. If you wanted to win poker, you would have."

She makes a point there.

"Okay, I played fair," he allows himself to admit. "So what?"

"What was that about—why did you, the Great J. Daniel Atlas, _want_ to lose? Sounds like there had been some sort of an ulterior motive."

He sits, quiet.

"You knew we had planned to get you to play," she begins. "And you knew we had planned to give you the shit cards."

No response. He's playing with his fingers. Anxious tapping, she would call it.

"You've lost me," she announces in confusion.

"Then I've won," the magician stands, shutting the source of blurry advertisements off for the umpteenth time that night. He's about ready to make his way out, but Henley's quick to rest her feet on the coffee table and thus trapping him.

She pushes long, light locks behind her ear and grins. He hadn't noticed earlier, but she's changed to her pajamas: a faded Jurassic Park t-shirt and loose shorts. He remembers that shirt. It's something she still had and wore during their performance practices. Her hair is damp and reeks of vanilla. The only color on her face is the pink glow of her cheeks. Cute. She's really cute, actually. Not that he'd ever tell her that.

"Now what, Henley?"

"You were jealous."

"That's quite a large accusation to make," he mutters, brow raised. He doesn't confirm nor deny it.

He watches (to his misfortune) her massive brown eyes get even more massive and it makes his stomach leap.

"You didn't want me to lose."

He stays silent, glaring at the fire in the aforementioned, massive brown eyes.

"Admit it," she rolls her eyes mid-snicker, paying close attention to the crinkle between his brows as they furrow. "The thought of me stripping down for anyone else infuriates you."

"False," Daniel reinforces, now avoiding looking at her entirely.

"Oh?" Henley perks herself upright so that she stands directly in front of him, completely blocking his way to leave. "Is that so?"

Her persistence is _exhausting_ and his heart will not stop hammering. Alas, he meets her pertinent gaze and sternly, at that.

"The thought of you stripping down for _Merritt McKinney_ infuriates me because that would be beneath you to try to make me jealous of a Class-A: Douche. In the most vile, cheapest of ways, too— _strip poker_? _Really_ , Henley?" the Atlas boy finally says in retaliation. "You suck at cards. I would know. He'd have you at a run for your money and your attire in seconds."

She's beaming (despite the fact he'd still incorporated some form of an insult in his quick-paced retort.) His reaction is telling, though. They both know it.

"So you didn't really lose at all. The long game..."

"—was to make sure you never had to take a single article of clothing off," he interrupts, trying to somehow move around her without touching. He's still not looking at her.

He'd conned all of them.

"Well, that was awfully—"

"Cheap? Manipulative? Deceitful? Controlling?" he interrupts in a frenzy of assumptions, quick to brush her off.

"— _selfless_ of you."

Blue eyes flickers to brown and his stomach is doing those weird, incomprehensible flips again. Dammit.

The silence that follows afterward is heavy, and he thinks that perhaps if he listened intently enough, he may either be able to hear either of their hearts thudding. She's taken aback, lost in thought and comprehension. Meanwhile, he had simply become the deer in the headlights. Panic-stricken whilst loathing awkward situations, he verbally excuses himself to bed, to which she reacts to moving out of his way, surprisingly so. There is heat in his ears when her voice is heard before he exits.

"Your low expectations on my gameplay gives me an advantage, you know?" the Reeves girl smiles softly, several feet behind him. "Rematch. You and me."

Daniel smirks, "Make sure to wear your finest set of undergarments."

"Don't sweat it. I'm in this for the long game."

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 **12:44 p.m.**

This, in his record book of a mind, is the sixth time she has spent the night in his apartment complex in a month. Not that he's complaining or anything, though. As a matter fact, he's not against her visitation at all. Having company—genuine company, _familiar_ company—is not as burdensome as he makes it out to be. It had began as a drunken _I-can't-drive-back-home_ crash on _his_ bed, slowly transitioning to seemingly-accidental falling asleep on his couch, to outright bringing her own packets of oatmeal for midnight snacks or early breakfasts, and pajamas he remembers her wearing when they had been younger. It is simply just a tad more significant today, the noon after, than the rest, due to the fact that they had kissed only seconds ago.

It is sweet, short, and accidental. Above all, it is natural. Instinctual, even. She had been leaving. He had walked her to the door. And it happens. Easily.

Perhaps because once upon a time ago, they had done this a lot, especially having lived together. Regardless of the excuses Daniel can conjure up in the minimal time between batting eyelashes in slow (slow, slow) blinks, he would be lying if he said he hadn't missed the taste of her chapstick.

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 **5:58 a.m.**

Several weeks after she leaves, he's in the community park on a wooden bench that has bird shit a few centimeters to his right and surprisingly, a lack of passerby. It most likely has to do with the fact that it's a Sunday or maybe this is how mornings are, he would never know. He's never up this early.

(She is, though, always. All morning runs and soy peppermint mochas.)

He remembers how she would show up to his apartment nearing seven o'clock with an almost empty carton cup, her hair tied up and disheveled and her face glowing pink. In the beginning, his first comment would be about whether or not it was smart of her to go out in public without any sort of disguise, and she would retort back in between pulling off her hoodie and throwing away her coffee. It would be something touching upon how her fresh faced, hair up, dress down didn't grab extraordinary attention and the matter that passerby (if there had been any, he observes) simply would never feel the need to take the time or effort to register the fact she's the infamous dark, polished, and wanted escape artist.

He would only sip at the coffee that he's brewed himself as he would watch her disappear to the bathroom, where he would end up following her to for a shower shortly after.

He looks around, exhaling a wispy breath of air into the September weather, adjusting the cap on his newly shaven head (of course, defeating the purpose of having it cut to begin with) and pushing the false spectacles up the bridge of his nose. She had once told him she found glasses on him immensely appealing. That isn't the reason he wore them, though. It's simply the most convenient disguise.

A melange of runners pass by his bench, none of which with a strawberry blonde ponytail swaying back and forth to his intolerable dismay. But he's not here in search of her or anything, he would claim to anyone who would think of such a humiliating thing. He's J. Daniel Atlas for fuck's sake: if he wanted a woman, he would get one.

And he already knows a slap would be in order if Henley were to have heard that objectification from a mile away.

The point of the matter is that he isn't here for her. His movements, itineraries, or actions have no relation and no correspondence at all to her possible whereabouts and/or engagements. Even if Merritt and Jack were to beg to differ.

With a clenched jaw and an indifferent glare aimed at the Starbucks across the street, he stands and stocks back to his apartment, missing the view of a familiar head of a woman jogging past the wooden bench.

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 **_a/n:** this may be a 3 part fic because i can also write of particular times/danley headcanons after nysm2. it really depends on whether or not I'm motivated, and that comes from feedback.

thoughts?


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